


Hunger Strike

by FaeryQueen07



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M, Starvation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-06
Updated: 2011-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-24 18:37:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/943301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaeryQueen07/pseuds/FaeryQueen07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Original prompt: <i>Arthur/Merlin, Hurt/Comfort - effects of starvation on one of the boys, with the other nursing him back to health</i></p><p>Additional prompt: <i>For whatever reason, Arthur doesn't go to Ealdor in the "Moment of Truth", and Merlin on his own can't convince the villagers to stay and fight, so the harvest is stolen while the villagers hide. Merlin stays on to try to help the famine-stricken town, but feels so guilty for failing to save them that he takes almost no food for himself. When Arthur hears about how things have turned out, he comes as quickly as he can bringing whatever aid he can manage, enough to get the village through the winter. Merlin is in worse shape than most. Arthur, wracked with his own guilt for not helping earlier, cares for Merlin himself.</i></p>
    </blockquote>





	Hunger Strike

**Author's Note:**

> Original prompt: _Arthur/Merlin, Hurt/Comfort - effects of starvation on one of the boys, with the other nursing him back to health_
> 
> Additional prompt: _For whatever reason, Arthur doesn't go to Ealdor in the "Moment of Truth", and Merlin on his own can't convince the villagers to stay and fight, so the harvest is stolen while the villagers hide. Merlin stays on to try to help the famine-stricken town, but feels so guilty for failing to save them that he takes almost no food for himself. When Arthur hears about how things have turned out, he comes as quickly as he can bringing whatever aid he can manage, enough to get the village through the winter. Merlin is in worse shape than most. Arthur, wracked with his own guilt for not helping earlier, cares for Merlin himself._

When Morgana and Gwen return—two weeks after they escorted Merlin back to Ealdor—they look wrecked. Their faces are smudged with dirt and grief clouds their eyes. Gwen smiles sadly at Arthur when they pass him as they enter the castle, but Morgana’s icy glare makes him pause. He can feel the accusation burning into him, unspoken but not unfelt. When he does not see Merlin, he finally caves and asks after him.

“He remained behind to help see them through the winter,” is all Morgana will say.

Gaius tends to both women and as he gives his report to the king, Arthur slips in. He hears the words ‘dehydrated’ and ‘malnourished’ and knows that he is partly to blame. People starve and die every day, but this time, he could have helped. Still, it’s not until several weeks into winter that he leaves, uncaring that he could become lost in a blizzard while travelling. Gwen and Morgana’s grief have become too much for him to bear and he needs to see Merlin, see that he’s okay despite everything.

When he does announce his decision to go, he takes what he can from the stores and allows Gaius to pack supplies for what must surely be awaiting him. Gwen had told him that there had been no more than seventy people in the village when they arrived; three died during the raid and another twelve died in the two weeks after that, of which four were children. Winter solstice was ten days past and the snow has hardly let up since then. No doubt, Ealdor’s people have suffered greatly.

The weight of those unnecessary deaths chases Arthur all the way to Ealdor, hastening his pace. He stops only when necessary and eats only the food he packed for himself. By the time he reaches the tiny village that rests on the outskirts of King Cenred’s land, Arthur is weary and wants nothing more than to see Merlin and assure himself he’s all right.

The first man he meets is older, close to Uther’s age, and walks with a pronounced limp. The scar on his face is fresh and Arthur knows without asking that it was received during the raid. He avoids looking at it as he dismounts, asking if there are any other able-bodied men to come unload the carts of food. His stomach clenches as tearful thanks and praise for his generosity are given and he knows that he does not deserve any of them. These people would not be starving, would not be _dying_ , if he had come sooner.

There are two dozen faces in the crowd, all of which are unfamiliar and all of which bear the marks of the bandits’ cruelty. Fear twists through Arthur until finally, _finally_ he thinks to ask. The murmuring stops and the silence is terrifying as he waits, then someone points towards a house farther down.

“You’ll find ‘im there, if ‘e’s still alive,” an old man says. “Hunith’ll be tending to him.

“Hunith’s gone to look for herbs. That lad of hers took the brunt of it,” a woman adds. “Wouldn’t take none of our food; said we had enough mouths to feed without worrying about him.”

The knot in Arthur’s gut tightens and he stays only long enough to grab food for Hunith, Merlin and himself. Then he is walking towards the last house, his stride long and deliberate, until worry has him running, nearly sprinting to see what has become of his manservant. His clumsy, idiotic manservant, whom Arthur has failed.

The house is dark; there are no candles and the early morning sun is still blocked by the surrounding trees. Arthur moves through the darkness carefully, his hands testing for obstructions, his feet careful as they navigate the earthen floor. There is broken crockery that splinters beneath his feet and the air reeks of death, making the bile rise in his throat. When his eyes finally adjust, he wishes they hadn’t.

Merlin is lying on a pallet near the farthest wall, where the sun is just beginning to filter in, illuminating his condition. It is heartbreaking, the cracked skin stretched taut across the high cheekbones, the red rings that mar his neck and face. His lips are scabbed and the arm that lies across the blanket looks as though it would snap under a harsh glare. But the worst, Arthur thinks, are the vacant blue eyes and the rattling breath that warns of fluid in the lungs, a dangerous illness to have during the winter.

Arthur barely recognizes his own voice when he whispers Merlin’s name, and by the time he collapses down beside the bed, his breathing is erratic. He struggles against the tears he doesn’t deserve to shed and reaches out to touch the fragile looking hand. At Merlin’s wince, Arthur withdraws, his elbow bumping into the pack at his side. It is then that he recalls the potions, herbs and other assortments that Gaius had packed him, and he begins pulling them out, laying them on the bed beside Merlin’s emaciated body so that he can figure out what needs to be given first.

It is hard going, getting Merlin to swallow. Infection has set in and Arthur can see the pain in his friend’s eyes each time his Adam’s apple bobs. Arthur’s aches in sympathy, but he presses on knowing – _hoping_ – that this will help in the long run. He has always been a bit more tactile with Merlin than with others, but what he has to do next goes above and beyond a few innocent touches. Taking a deep breath, he strips away the filthy clothes and lifts Merlin—naked and so dangerously thin it’s terrifying—from the bug-infested pallet. It is hard, however, not to gag at the stench of decay and sickness that always permeates the air surrounding the sore-ridden.

A woman Arthur does not know peeks through the door, her eyes wide with pity and sadness as she takes in the state of things. Before Arthur can request it, she offers, “I’ll have the women begin heating water for a bath. My husband, David, will bring in the barrel. Hunith should be back soon.” She disappears before thanks can be given.

Arthur finds that he is somewhat afraid to face the woman who bravely traveled to Camelot to beg help from Uther. He has let her son down, has let her whole _village_ down, and even though he’s come now, it is too late. He cannot bring back the dead men, women and children. He accepts that when she returns, she will most likely blame him, accuse him of being no better than her own king. It leaves an acidic taste on his tongue.

A young woman arrives and Arthur sends her to fetch soap and a soft cloth. When she returns, he asks her for an account of the dead and the wounded so that he can determine how badly off this village is and who will be most in need of his assistance—he isn’t above sending someone to bring back more men. It is through the network of women that Arthur learns that among those dead is a young man named Will, the only person Merlin had had to call friend. There is regret in those words, and Arthur wonders why Merlin came back to fight for a village that had cast him out.

When the half-barrel is full—they had brought the full barrel, but after weighing the pros and cons, Arthur had decided it was safer to use the one meant for children instead—Arthur gently lowers Merlin into the water. It’s tepid at best for now, so as not to aggravate his skin condition. Cool water is pressed to Merlin’s lips and after what feels like hours, he takes his first sip. It isn’t much, and it certainly isn’t enough, nonetheless Arthur takes it as a sign that things will get better.

When Hunith arrives, Arthur almost doesn’t recognize her. There are no bruises to mar her face this time, but she is thinner and has a haunted look about her. She is startled to see him, that much is clear when she drops the basket of herbs she was out gathering. Her gaze moves from him to Merlin and back and another wave of guilt crashes through Arthur.

“You’ve brought Gaius?”

Arthur flinches at the question, because he can see the hope burning in her eyes and knows that his answer will crush it. He glances down at the bag at his feet and wonders if the bag is enough, if Merlin will survive long enough for Arthur to take him home to Camelot where he will be tended to.

“Once Merlin is stable, I will be taking him back to Camelot.” He looks around as he speaks, sees the faces of the villagers – what is left of them – and hears himself saying, “The invitation is extended to all of Ealdor’s people, for any who wish to join the kingdom of Camelot. We— _I_ welcome you all.” There is a low murmur as his words are spread to those who are not close enough to hear. “Think about it. I must leave at week’s end and I will need to know how many to prepare for. My men, trusted knights of Camelot, will return to assist those who require it.”

He turns his attention back to Merlin, who is looking no more alert now than he was a few minutes ago, and Arthur has to admit that Merlin is worse shape than he anticipated. Hunith must see his hesitancy, because suddenly she is moving, picking up her basket and shooing the two women beside the bath further back and out of the way.

“If he’s left too long in the water his skin will worsen,” she whispers.

Arthur all but lurches into action, bending to scoop Merlin into his arms, unmindful of the water soaking his tunic and breeches as he carries him to a clean pallet. He’s gentle as he lays Merlin out, and he takes his pack from Hunith, flashing her the briefest of smiles, and begins searching for the jars he will need.

“I need hot water and heated stones.” He glances at Merlin’s thin chest, listens to the rattling and amends his request. “If you could heat the linens in that pack over there, keep them warm with stones, that would be wiser. I don’t think he would survive having anything heavy laid upon him.”

The women who lurk nearby all nod and disperse, sharing the tasks that he has given them. Hunith sinks to the ground across from and takes Merlin’s hand between both of her own.

“My poor boy. He tried so hard to help us, but the Lady Morgana was in danger and when he turned to her aid...”

“What?”

“Kanan tried to shoot him. William took the arrow meant for my son and Merlin, he blamed himself. For the ladies being there, for those that died, for the loss of our crops. Afterward, he worked steadily to help rebuild what he could, found other food for our people and tended to the sick. After Lady Morgana and her maid left, though, he seemed to give up. He would not eat, would not drink unless everyone had had their fill. Our well went foul and we discovered one of the bandits had fallen inside. He showed us how to build another, farther away where the soil was not contaminated. And then he fell ill.

“I tried to send for help, but we were all still recovering. The winter was so harsh this year that we had no able bodies not needed here. He told me it wasn’t necessary, that he was not expected to return.”

“He said that he wasn’t planning on returning until he was no longer needed. I—” Arthur swallows and looks away. “I should have been here. Had I, this would not have happened.”

“You cannot know that, your Highness.”

But he does. He can see how the whole mess would have played out and while lives might still have been lost, Ealdor would have been won. It takes a moment for Hunith’s words to reach the others, but when they do, there is a gasp, a subtle shift in the air as the people gathered realize just who is standing among them. It occurs to Arthur that they had probably just thought him an envoy of the king, not the crown prince. His skin prickles under their weighted stares, but he ignores it for the time being.

“I train men daily for battle. There is none better in all the land of Camelot than I, and that is not arrogance speaking, only fact. I _must_ be the best, if I am to lead my people. At the very least, I could have prepared you, taught you how to defend yourselves.”

Hunith gazes at him with pity, as though he is the one who has suffered, not she. “What’s done is done, sire. Was no more your fault than my Merlin’s. This isn’t your doing, Highness.”

Her words should be soothing, but all they do is add to the guilt crushing his chest. “I—I need to get him back to Camelot. Gaius will be able to help him.”

She nods and looks over to where her son is not so much sleep as he is unconscious and Arthur can see the pain, the grief waiting to be unleashed, and he realizes just how helpless he is in this situation. He has come too late to save these people, his determination to do his father proud causing him to hurt Merlin. Idiotic, strange, too-loyal-for-his-own-good _Merlin_.

An apology sits heavily on this tongue, but Arthur swallows the words he wants to say, knowing they would be unwelcome. Instead, he moves past Hunith, taking a seat on the filthy floor near where Merlin’s head lies. He’s slept under worse conditions, he reminds himself, as he settles down for the night. The women shuffle in and out, covering Merlin’s body with heated rags in hopes of feeding of some heat into his body and for a while, Arthur gives directions, but Hunith is still there and he is certain she is quite capable of taking care of her son.

As sleep seeps into his bones and darkens the edges of his mind, Arthur sends out a quick prayer to whatever deity is watching that Merlin lasts through the night.

***.*.*.***

“He isn’t well,” are the first words out of Arthur’s mouth when he barges into Gaius’ chambers, Merlin clutched to his chest.

To his credit, it only takes a single glance for Gaius to deduce that Merlin requires immediate attention, and as he bustles about plucking seemingly random jars and vials down from the various shelves, Arthur edges back until he can sink down on Gaius’ bed. He’ll have to move soon – Merlin can’t stay on the table forever – but for now, he allows himself to really relax.

He doesn’t stay for long, only waiting to see that Gaius truly does have everything well in hand, then takes himself back off to the stables, where he unceremoniously left Hunith and the few others who had chosen to return with him. He finds them standing together, warily eyeing the stable hands, but they visibly relax when they spot Arthur. That he can have such an effect on these people whom he failed only reminds of just how far he has to go before he is truly worthy of the gratitude shining in their eyes.

Gwen appears at his elbow, her eyes wide with disbelief and, he thinks faintly, pride, but Arthur doesn’t have time for it.

“Guinevere, I know it is a lot to ask of you, but would you open your home to these people until I can speak to my father? You will, of course, be compensated, and I will have extra food and bedding brought down.”

“You don’t need to—”

“Please, Guinevere, I require only a simple yes or no answer.” Arthur keeps his voice gentle, eyes pleading where his tone and words cannot.

“Of course, sire,” she replies with a curtsey. She turns to the group and smiles warmly. “If you’ll just follow me this way, my home is close by. I’m a servant in the castle, so until you’re settled in, I will remain with my lady there. Please make yourselves at home.”

As Gwen passes by Arthur, she presses a hand to his arm, her words carefully directed to only his ears. “Thank you for bringing him back, Arthur.”

He doesn’t deserve her thanks, can barely bring himself to meet her gaze, so he only nods, throat working furiously to keep at bay all the words and feelings that keep threatening to choke him. He stays like that, eyes locked on the far wall, chin tilted up with pride that only goes skin deep and waits for everyone else to leave. With one final look at the wagon that bore Merlin back to Camelot, he spins on his heel and exits the stables.

Perhaps because he’s dreading it so much, the walk to the throne room seems to take less time than usual. Before he knows it, Arthur is requesting a private audience, nodding only at Morgana to let her know she can stay. He trusts in this that she will not be smug, knows that he can count of her for support, little that it might help.

“You have brought back your manservant,” Uther enquires, slouched in his throne with an almost casual air. Arthur is not fooled; Uther’s gaze is sharp, his mind even more so.

“I have, Sire. He was— _is_ close to death.”

“An unfortunate turn of events, though I somehow doubt that is why you are standing before me. I am not unused your...fondness for the boy. What reason is there for this show of formality, Arthur?”

“The village of Ealdor has been decimated. Once by the bandits we were unable to help them stand against, and once to the cruel embrace of winter.”

“As I have already said, an unfortunate turn of events.” Uther does not shift, but his eyes narrow and Arthur can see that he is already working out for himself where this conversation is headed.

“I have brought back a handful of villagers with me. Merlin’s mother, Hunith, whom you have already met, and a few others, including the youngest of the children who survived.”

He has Uther’s full attention now, and Morgana’s as well. Swallowing hard, Arthur drops to one knee and bows his head low.

“I beseech you, sire, to allow these people to make a new home here, where they will not be forced to live under the rule of the bandit leader Kanan. They will work hard to build their own homes, but the crops they were able to salvage after Kanan’s invasion will not hold them through to the next harvest. They had gone to their king and he has made it clear he has no care for such a small group.”

“You would have Camelot’s people ration their own food so that we may bring in another hundred hungry mouths?”

And this is the key, Arthur knows, the moment where his words will have the most sway. He managed to get the number of dead before he left and he knows that for all that his father is hard man, sometimes even cruel, in the face of fear, he is not unjust. Not toward those he sees as innocent.

“The village never held more than seventy people. When I arrived, their number had been cut to fifty-five and after a week, they lost five more. Three were elderly and two—two were children.” He knows his voice is cracking, but it cannot be helped. Arthur can still hear the cries of the grieving mothers and fathers, a sound he never wants to hear again.

“That many?” Uther sits up, one hand coming down to grip the arm of his chair while the other lies clenched on his knee. “And those who accompanied you back?”

“A young mother and her infant, both of good health, Hunith, who suffers from exhaustion and lack of food, and few others, all well enough to travel. I left what medicines I had with the rest and told them I would send word one way or another within a few days. I have made no promises, sire.”

He doesn’t dare look up yet, both because he can feel the sting of tears at the backs of his eyes and because he does not think he can look his father in the eye, knowing that Uther is just as much to blame as Arthur is.

“Where have you sent them?”

“Guinevere has offered her home. Her father will most likely offer the forge as well, as he keeps the fires there burning late into the night. I would not bring them inside the castle walls without first receiving your permission, sire.”

A hand settles on Arthur’s head, heavy and strong, the fingers only barely flexing against his scalp. It is all the assurance he needs that his request will be granted.

“Camelot did not suffer greatly this winter, and so our stores are more than capable of feeding your villagers. You may take no more than five men and five wagons. And Arthur?” Arthur lifts his head, finally meeting his father’s eyes. “You have made me proud son.”

Proud, Arthur knows, only because he waited, allowed this devastation to claim so many lives, but he accepts the praise for it is too late to anything else. He waits until Uther is gone and climbs unsteadily to his feet, forgetting that Morgana is still there.

“You’ve done a good thing, Arthur,” she says, face so calm, so serene, and Arthur wants to curse at her.

“I have done too little. _That_ is what you truly wish to say.”

She shrugs, moving to his side, looping her arm through his. “Merlin never blamed you for not coming with. He knows better than anyone the pressure you live with daily, for all that he acts otherwise. He was glad, he told me, that you were not there, for he claimed he would have spent all his time worrying about getting the crown prince killed.” She laughs softly. “No, that isn’t right. He was upset that Gwen and I went with him and said that having you there as well...he said he did not want to see his friends die fighting his battles.”

Morgana pauses, her eyes gentler than have been in a while, and when she raises her hand, it is to cup Arthur’s cheek. They stand like that, communicating silently for several seconds until she lets her hand fall away and begins walking once more.

“He only had one regret, Arthur, and that was that he did not do better by you as friend. He thinks you’re lonesome, that you do not have anyone with whom you can talk freely. Before we left, he made us promise that we would tell you that. That you were not to blame for whatever the outcome was.”

“I don’t—I don’t have time for this,” Arthur says, because he wants so badly to hear more and knows that he has not yet earned that right. Morgana, true to form, sees right through his words.

“Later then. Walk me to my rooms? I want to begin gathering clothing and bedding for those who are already here.”

Arthur walks her to her door, leaves her with a not a single word more, and lets his feet take him back in the direction of the Court Physician's rooms. Rather than go inside, however, Arthur sinks down onto the steps and holds his vigil there.

***.*.*.***

By the time the villagers begin to arrive, the rattling in Merlin’s chest has eased. Because they will need all the space they can get to tend to the sick villagers, Arthur has Gaius pack up Merlin’s belongings and moves him into the antechamber of his own quarters. Or, at least, Arthur has Merlin’s _things_ moved there. Merlin, however, has been given the place of honor, laid out in Arthur’s bed, dressed in soft cottons and linens that will not aggravate his skin.

Arthur alternates between sleeping in his chair and on a pallet by the fire until the night he by chance goes to check on Merlin and finds that he has stopped breathing. After that, it only makes sense that he sleep on the bed as well, one hand always resting on Merlin’s chest, measuring each rise and fall, waiting for a repeat scare.

It is two weeks before Merlin opens his eyes, another before he is able to sit propped up so that he can sip broth. Arthur allows Gwen and Hunith to share the task of feeding Merlin at breakfast and lunch, but claims the evening meals for himself, stating it would be unseemly for a woman of _any_ age to be caught in the prince’s chambers after dusk. Morgana spends a few hours each day quietly embroidering, never saying a word, as they watch Merlin’s strength slowly return.

When Merlin finally speaks, it’s been another two weeks and his face is remains gaunt to the point of being skeletal. He still can’t sit up on his own, he’s only awake for an hour or so before he becomes drowsy, and Arthur isn’t blind to the worried looks Gaius and Hunith exchange each time they see him. But Merlin’s voice, startlingly rusty and broken as it is, soothes an ache inside Arthur that has nothing to do with guilt and sorrow and everything to do with loss and that missing _something_.

“How long?” he croaks, eyes tracking Arthur’s movements across the room.

“I’m not certain. Five weeks by my own count, though probably longer by your mother’s.”

“Thank you. For bringing her here.”

Arthur frowns at him as he sits on the edge of the bed, hands automatically reaching for vials that will help ease the aches Merlin must be feeling.

“Has no one told you?” he asks at last.

Merlin shakes his head, then winces, downing the contents of the first vial readily. “Gwen mostly talks about the children she’s taken in. I—did something happen here?”

Arthur shakes his head and laughs because really, leave it to Gwen and Morgana and Hunith to leave _him_ with the task of tell Merlin that he’s moved an entire village to Camelot.

“You could say that. Camelot acquired some new subjects recently and Gwen has been happily helping out with the youngest ones. Morgana as well, though she’ll deny it. They all think she’s a beautiful fairy princess.”

Merlin’s smile is wide, proud and unassuming. He doesn’t ask who the new arrivals are, cares only that Arthur has done something so good. It’s another sharp pain in Arthur’s stomach, this smile, and he thinks he might have to see Gaius about it again.

“They’re _your_ people, idiot,” He says at last. “I left for Ealdor just after the winter solstice and when I saw what had happened...” He swallows and gathers himself together, trying desperately to not see the sadness and concern in Merlin’s eyes. “I went before the king and asked for refuge, a place to start over, for those who had survived. He granted it and they were brought to Camelot within a week. Several villagers have opened their homes to the people of Ealdor and already new homes are being built. It will be crowded, yes, but things are working out.

“Gwen’s father, Tom, has taken one of the boys as apprentice. Your mother will be assisting Gaius from now on – and thank goodness for that as you completely lack the skills required – and two of the younger girls are training under Gwen to become royal servants. They will have good jobs here,” he hurried on to add. “My father will not allow them to be abused and they will be able to earn money for their families. I believe there are few boys he has his eye for future pages, should they prove to have at least a modicum of obedience. He is of the belief that none of them could be nearly as useless as you.”

The insult is forced, but it brings another beaming smile to Merlin’s face that Arthur is grateful for. Without conscious thought, he reaches out to ruffle Merlin’s hair, something he’s taken to doing during the weeks Merlin spent unconscious, then freezes, fingers still tangled in the wavy locks.

“Thank you. For everything, Arthur.”

Arthur coughs and retracts his hand, letting it rest awkwardly in his lap. “Don’t thank me yet. Once you’re all better you’ll be back to complaining about all the work I’ve been saving up for you.”

Merlin tries to shake his head – it’s hardly more than the faintest of jerks – and his hand inches across the bedspread slowly. It pains Arthur to see him so physically weakened, and he reaches out to gently clasp it within his own with feigned nonchalance. “You didn’t have to do this. I mean, King Cenred certainly didn’t care about us.”

_King Cenred_ , Arthur thinks. _Not ‘my king,’ or even ‘our king,’ just King Cenred._ ’ Because, Arthur knows, Merlin only serves one person, and that is the Crown Prince of Camelot.

"I will not allow people to starve, not when there is something I can do to help them." He pauses, holding Merlin's sleepy gaze. "Regardless of which kingdom they live in. Now get some rest. The girls will no doubt be anxious to show you all that we have accomplished once you are fit to do so."

He makes to leave then, but Merlin tightens his grip. Weak as it is, it pins Arthur in his steps, holds him like nothing else has before. He can see the exhaustion pulling at Merlin, and it tugs at his heart, makes his gut clench, the way Merlin looks at him almost pleadingly.

"Stay?" His voice is barely more than a whisper, and Arthur can see the worry knit into the crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

"Of course." Arthur bypasses the chair, the edge of the bed, and kicks off his shoes so he can slide onto the bed beside Merlin. "Do you remember that time, Merlin, when you..."

As Arthur talks, his voice low and soothing, Merlin sinks down, shifts his tired body until he's got his head resting on Arthur's thigh. Arthur gazes down at him, runs his fingers through the thick, tangled locks and continues to reminisce aloud.

It isn't until several candle-marks later that Arthur looks down once more, sees Merlin's face soft and slack with sleep and understands. This, _this_ , is what has been missing. The sharp ache has been soothed down to something much more manageable, and Arthur finds, terrifying as it is to feel something so strong for another human being, he doesn't regret it.  



End file.
